“Is he dead? Is George dead?”
“That's hard to say,” interposed the other; “but they've buried him, that's certain.”
Like a stunning blow, the shock of this news left me unable to speak or hear. A maze of confused thoughts crossed and jostled each other in my brain, and I could neither collect myself nor listen to what was said around me. My first clear memory was of a thousand little childish traits of love which had passed between us. Tokens of affection long forgotten now rushed freshly to my mind; and he whom a moment before I had condemned as wanting in all brotherly feeling, I now sorrowed for with true grief. The low and vulgar insolence of the speakers made no impression on me; and when, in answer to my questions, they narrated the manner of his death,—a fever contracted after some debauch at Oxford,—I only heard the tidings, but did not notice the unfeeling tone it was conveyed in.
My brother dead! the only one of kith or kindred belonging to me. How slight the tie seemed but a few moments back! what would I not give for it now? Then, for the first time, did I know how the heart can heap up its stores of consolation in secrecy, and how unconsciously the mind can dwell on hopes it has never confessed even to itself. How I fancied to myself our meeting, and thought over the long pent-up affection years of absence had accumulated, now flowing in a gushing stream from heart to heart I The grave is indeed hallowed when the grass of the churchyard can cover all memory save that of love. We dwell on every good gift of the lost one, as though no unworthy thought could cross that little mound of earth, the barrier between two worlds. Sad and sorrow-struck, I covered my face with my hands, and did not notice that Mr. Basset had entered, and taken his place at the desk.
His voice, every harsh tone of which I well remembered, first made me aware of his presence. I lifted my eyes, and there he stood, little changed indeed since I had seen him last. The hard lines about the mouth had grown deeper, the brow more furrowed, and the hair more mixed with gray, but in other respects he was the same. As I gazed at him I could not help fancying that time makes less impression on men of coarse, unfeeling mould, than on natures of a finer temper. The world's changes leave no trace on the stern surface of the one, while they are wearing deep tracks of sorrow in the other.
“Insert the advertisement again, Simms,” said he, addressing one of the clerks, “and let it appear in some paper of the seaport towns. Among the Flemish or French smugglers who frequent them, there might be some one to give the information. They must be able to show that though Thomas Burke—”
I started at the sound of my name. The motion surprised him; he looked round and perceived me. Quick and piercing as his glance was, I could not trace any sign of recognition; although, as he scanned my features, and suffered his eyes to wander over my dress, I perceived that his was no mere chance or cursory observation.
“Well, sir,” said he, at length, “is your business here with me?”
“Yes; but I would speak with you in private.”